The Incorruptibles (8 page)

‘Truly, brother,’ Livia said, looking him up and down. ‘These games were fine when you were a boy teasing the guards at home in Rume, but these are freemen. And proud.’

‘They’re dirty, lowly curs and deserve nothing but a boot in their arses.’ Gnaeus spat. ‘I’ve seen nothing in this entire shitty continent to rival the fortitude of the lowest-born Ruman, or the beauty and majesty of Latinum.’

Secundus said, ‘Brother, look around you. The world is filled with wonders and new things. These White Mountains are higher and more precipitous than any in Latinum. The game in the shoallands is fat and massive. Even the bear was as fierce as any in the Gaellands, Gall, or Tueton.’ He waved a gloved hand at the horizon. ‘All you have to do is open your eyes and you’ll see marvellous things.’

‘Do not mention the bear to me, Secundus. You stole my rightful kill.’

Secundus shook his head and shrugged.

‘There’s no appealing to Gnaeus’ sense of wonder,’ Carnelia said. ‘For him to take notice of anything, you’d need to dress it up in fur and have it grunt so he can either fuck it or shoot it.’

Gnaeus twitched, and his hand went to his six-gun. But then he stopped and with great effort unclenched his fists. He spat again, tugged his reins, putting spur to flank, and rode ahead. Carnelia smiled at his retreating back.

Livia grimaced. ‘God, I hope father marries you off before he dies.’

‘Marriage is overrated. Or so I’ve heard, sister,’ Carnelia quipped.

Livia coloured at the remark. The cords on her neck stood out, and she gripped the reins tighter.

‘I should remind you,’ Livia said, ‘that if Gnaeus becomes pater familias of the Cornelian household, at best, he’ll marry you to some withered old senator to curry favour in the forum. At worst, he’ll crucify you. Remember the Numidian slave?’

Carnelia paused, looked away toward the mountains. ‘She was his lapnurse, that’s all.’

‘He loved her, I think, if he’s ever loved anyone in this life other than himself.’

‘It’s true, sissy,’ said Secundus. ‘And remember what he did to her when she asked for manumission?’

‘Just a slave,’ Carnelia said, shaking her head. ‘She was just a slave.’

Livia, sensing a weakness in her sister, carried on. ‘It matters not. She was his lapnurse and took his first seed. He was sweet on her. He was just a boy, maybe thirteen. He brought her flowers that time – Secundus and I caught him picking them in the garden and teased him unmercifully. But when she wanted to be freed, he had her crucified.’ She sniffed. ‘Think what you will, but he loved that Numidian slave far more than he’s ever cared for you.’

Secundus said, ‘He will be head of the household. And that means he has the say of life or death over all of us.’ He smiled at his sister, trying to comfort her. ‘Just leave him be. Let him have his hunts and bed down with the serving girls, and don’t argue.’

‘He’s a fool and an arse,’ Carnelia said, her face turning sour. But after that, she fell silent and stared at the whipping grasses and the distant mountains.

I reined in near Livia.

‘Ma’am, if I may be so bold …’

‘Of course, Mr Ilys. Speak.’

‘Keep an eye on Mr Gnaeus, will you? Hunts are unpredictable in the Territories. It’s not that Gnaeus’ll get hurt … but others, too. And there might be stretchers about.’

She glanced at me, and then inclined her head as though she understood. From beneath a flounce of her riding skirt she withdrew what looked to be a club, thick and deadly.

But when she raised it, breeched the chamber, and fed two thick warded shells into its open maw, I knew she was holding a sawn-off blunderbuss. Silver and holly shot, most likely.

‘Of course, Mr Ilys. I shall be on my guard.’

Damnation. What a woman.

We moved out of the shadow of the mountains, over rises and into soft valleys ringed by shallow hills rippling with shoal grasses as the sun rose. The air grew a bit warmer, though it was still very cold.

Having to stare into the sun, once he returned, did not help Fisk’s disposition.

We’d seen green slicks of auroch droppings at the stream I’d scouted earlier, and the stream ran fast, though no deeper than girth height. The herd’s passing had ripped the shore up to Hell and back, and even the dullest lictor or lascar knew we were getting closer to our quarry.

Watching Gnaeus was like watching a child on New Year’s Day waiting for his presents. He trotted his charger into the front – occasionally, like a boy with a pop-gun, raising his carbine as though he had spotted something and needed to take aim quickly. And then he’d swig from his wine bladder.

The ladies watched him too. Livia glanced at me, shifted the weight of her sawn-off, and winked. Carnelia, her moment of thoughtfulness over, laughed and asked bright, biting questions of Isabelle and Banty, Livia and Secundus.

I concentrated on the horizon, the brim of hill.

Fisk returned from our front-trail, and, holding up his clenched hand, indicated for us to stop.

‘They’re just over the next rise. A big mess of auroch. Thousands strong.’ He glanced at Gnaeus. ‘Congratulations, Mr Gnaeus, you’re going to get your hunt.’

Gnaeus suddenly became all business, checking his bandoliers and fiddling with his carbine. ‘I shall proceed first.’ The eldest Cornelian looked at Secundus and Livia. ‘You will follow after, as is your place. Understood?’

They inclined their heads.

Gnaeus wheeled his horse and flew off, over the hills. Fisk waved a hand at the legionaries perched in the wagon. ‘Get out, you damned fools. Get ready. Shoe! Make sure these idiots watch the horizon, not the slaughter.’

I nodded. Past the waiting patricians Fisk swung the big black, who was in a high dander, her flanks frothy with sweat. They all were accustomed to sitting on a horse, but Isabelle was a real natural. They followed Fisk over the rise, and I waved to the legionaries and lictors to follow.

A thousand shoal aurochs on the hoof kick up a lot of dust. As a rule, like most animals with any sense, they don’t like Hellfire. But the noise confuses them, and somewhere back along the innumerable line of cow and bull lineage, they figured standing still was better than running if they couldn’t see anything, which, most likely, they couldn’t.

Gnaeus had a high, wild air to him as he raced along, firing shots into the herd. Auroch fell, left and right, and seeing the young nobleman so euphoric somehow put the damper on the other nobles’ thirst for the hunt. Carnelia rode down, pulled her little pistol, and fired once into the mess of aurochs, whose lowings filled the air with a constant basso rumble. But then the patrician lass hung back, dust pluming from her horse’s hooves. The rest of us watched from the top of the hillock as the eldest Cornelian son yelped and cursed and loosed
daemon
after
daemon
into the animals. His horse was nearing panic from the constant Hellfire. Carnelia turned and slowly rode back to join us. I imagine that brief taste of gunplay and damnation was enough for her.

Then Gnaeus’ horse stopped. He didn’t go wild, didn’t rear, didn’t thrash. He merely drooped his big head, tugging the reins away from Gnaeus. The Cornelian boy leaned forward and grabbed at them, but couldn’t reach. So he dismounted and, the second Gnaeus’ foot touched earth and he reached for the reins, the charger danced sideways and then slowly began walking away, back up the hill to us.

It was most likely the continued Hellfire – its constant unloosing of
imps
– that dispirited the horse. I know horses. They’re smart, loyal creatures. But this one had probably been tried beyond all endurance by his master.

I think we all were, some.

It was a slaughter.

It hadn’t rained since the night of Fisk taking the
vaettir
arrow in the leg. The ground was dry and the thousands of aurochs, now stirred by gunfire and the thinning of the herd, stirred and moved and we kicked the horses down the hill, into the massive clouds of dust thrown into the air.

Gnaeus continued to fire into the herd, screaming and laughing with Hellfire dementia, his hair tumbled forward into an oily mess, his fine riding clothes caked in dust.

The air filled with the haze of plain dirt, and it was hard to see them as they came toward us, darting, flipping, racing forward like lightning. Leaping from auroch back, rising into the air, and landing on auroch haunch – like some Minoan youth vaulting bulls.

They moved like light on water. Like wind over grass.

Vaettir.

Fisk gave a hard, bright whistle, cutting through the lowing of the aurochs and the noise of the horses.

He raised his rifle, tracked a fleet
vaettir
racing across the tops of aurochs, and fired once, just as the stretcher dropped out of sight.

‘Arms! To arms, Ia-dammit!’ Fisk reined his horse near the patrician women and hefted his rifle, eyes scanning the herd.

More dust filled the sky. Gnaeus still fired into the herd, but it had stopped moving away and seemed to be bunching.

A herd of auroch is like a great tide of flesh, and controlling its flow is an art for cowboys and sodbusters. I’ve never had the knack for cow, sheep or auroch wrangling. I take meat when I need it, never more than I need. But these auroch, these shoal beasts, hadn’t fled the noisy Hellfire-bearing man shouting at them. They had drifted away, yes, but they were great stupid beasts, truly. Now they bunched together, and even pushed toward Gnaeus – among all of us the closest to the beasts, and the indigenes.

The lictors gathered close and the lascars, so far from the waters of the Big Rill, gripped rifles with white-knuckled hands. At least they had sense. They were wise enough to be afraid.

I brought Bess in closer to Fisk. Close enough to hear Miss Livia say, ‘Why are the aurochs getting so close? You’d think that they’d be fleeing …’

‘Ia-damn your brother.’ Fisk wheeled his horse around and grabbed the wild lordling’s rebellious mount. ‘Shoe, it’s time to run, pard. Them stretchers are pushing them at us.’

As he said it, a
vaettir
appeared on the back of the herd, racing across it, a great spear clutched in its massive hand. I’d been in the hot southern lands in my youth, and I spent days indolent on the beaches there, sipping booze in the company of ladies of negotiable virtue. The sharks, coming in with the tide, would patrol the waters, dorsal fins cutting into the air like knives, black against the blue of the water and sky. This
vaettir
seemed no different, swimming through the waters of the herd.

Berith was there.

I’ll be damned if he wasn’t grinning, showing his mouthful of sharp teeth, leaping from auroch withers to skull to rump, bounding fifteen feet with each leap and then disappearing into the herd. His red mane whipped behind him and his clothes, a colourful mishmash of fabrics, ruffled with the wind of his speed.

‘Ia-dammit,’ Fisk said. ‘Get ’em moving, Shoestring. The stretchers are gonna work the herd into a stampede.’

He wheeled again and rode quickly down the hill, carbine in one hand and his reins and Gnaeus’ mount’s in the other.

Before he was halfway there, the herd broke.

They were coming. And
vaettir –
more than one – raced along with them, leaping from back to back. Hard to tell how many, through the dust haze. The
vaettir
were blurs, indistinct except for their speed and the flashes of teeth and spears and naked blades.

Fisk whipped up his gun, full gallop, and busted loose a shot, then twirled the rifle in his big hand, working the lever-action, and fired again.

Gnaeus had finally stopped his wild, stupid loosing of Hellfire. Discovering his dire situation, he showed the only bit of sense he’d done in my acquaintance with him. He ran. Toward Fisk, toward his horse. The herd wasn’t far behind. The look of terror on his face would have been more pleasing if the same expression hadn’t been plastered on my own.

The lictors and legionaries had more sense than their master, young Gnaeus, and had already turned to hie it home when the first arrow took a horse in the neck and it screamed, reared, and tilted. The lictor hit the ground, hard, and didn’t get up. Everything slowed and I lost track of where Fisk was, or Gnaeus’ progress to safety.

‘Ride! Ride to the wagon!’ I yelled, hearing how shrill my voice was. But Livia was a smart lady and she’d already muscled her gelding into Isabelle’s, snatched up her reins and galloped full-bore away. Young Banty was on the other side. He had out his pistol and seemed quite concerned with the Medieran lass’s safety. Carnelia was close behind. To my surprise, even in my panic and terror, I registered that the three ladies were lovely to behold – their dresses like the petals of flowers caught in the first breezes of an oncoming storm.

Most of the legionaries – afoot, one and all – were doing a passable job of keeping up with the mounted folks.

‘Ride!’ I screamed at the lictors and Secundus. One of the honour guards had trouble with his horse and the others seemed to feel they needed to make a stand, protecting the patrician women fleeing toward the wagon. One took an arrow in his throat; as for the other, his horse’s flank sprouted an arrow shaft. Secundus sighted his rifle, fired, and levered another round into the breech. The nearness of the Hellfire made my heart lurch and despair.

The women dismounted and the legionaries flipped the wagon onto its side. Livia, with horses in tow, disappeared around the far side of the wagon to huddle behind the slatted floorboards.

Bess barked once, braying, and tugged the reins from me – her way of saying, ‘It’s time to
go
!’ – and began galloping over the lip of the hill toward the wagon. I couldn’t see Fisk anymore, or Gnaeus. I could only watch now as enraged and terrified shoal auroch came over the lip of the hill, racing past the small clutch of lictors remaining there, like brown floodwaters overtaking a last hillock. The lictors – I’ll give them their bravery – swung their holly and silver fasces wildly, but in vain. They were trodden underfoot.

Secundus was riding beside me, Hell for leather and firing behind him without much care for aim. The red-haired
vaettir
was coming. He was big, sharp-fanged, and fast. Like lightning dancing from gable to treetop he hopped from auroch to auroch, spinning in the air, somersaulting. In a blur he darted over the lictors, his hands lancing out, one glinting bright. And as Berith passed he left a slowly falling lictor spurting a bright spray of blood into the air, his scalp, separated from his skull, now swinging crazily from the
vaettir
’s clawed fist.